


Perhaps to Pray

by Dappled_Grey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, before the battle, not quite romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 12:59:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18621121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dappled_Grey/pseuds/Dappled_Grey
Summary: Sansa goes to pray on the eve of battle, and finds an old familiar face along the way. A variation of the missing reunion scene from 8.2 "A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms"___“You’ve avoided me.” She finally says, simply. It is not an accusation but Sandor grunts and looks away nonetheless.“No one needs an old dog underfoot.” He grumbles.





	Perhaps to Pray

**Author's Note:**

> I'm offering yet another version of the missing Sansa/Sandor reunion from 8.2. This is my first ever GOT fic, so all comments including con crit are absolutely welcome!

Praying hadn’t been much of a priority for Sansa of late, what with the ceaseless strain of trying to hold together the fractured, war-weary north commanding her every waking moment. But now with the promise of battle thick in the air she feels the need to seek out what may be her final chance to reflect under the watchful eyes of the weirwood. 

As she draws nearer to the Godswood her purposeful strides slow of their own accord and she instinctively turns her eyes to the periphery of the final preparations being made in the torch lit yard, eventually finding a familiar shadowed sentinel. Sansa had been told of his arrival, of his newfound affiliation with her brother’s cause and his surprising history with a man who brandishes a flaming sword, but in the weeks since she’d caught no more than a fleeting glimpse of his looming form somewhere in the courtyard. Nevertheless she is certain he will not deny her now, and stands patiently while he at last makes his approach. 

“Walk with me.” Though still silent he meets her eye and nods respectfully before falling into his familiar place half a stride behind her. As they make their way deeper into the wood the quiet grows heavy and tangible, seemingly compressing the air around them until nothing is left but the nearness of the other’s breathing. With conscious effort Sansa moves a bit away from him, beckoning for him to draw level with her. 

“You’ve avoided me.” She finally says, simply. It is not an accusation but Sandor grunts and looks away nonetheless.

“No one needs an old dog underfoot.” He grumbles. 

“I’ve never known you to be underfoot.” She challenges, a sad smile dancing at the corners of her mouth as she recalls the ever-present witness of her days caged in the Red Keep. Sandor merely hums in acknowledgment, more taciturn than she has ever known him to be, which prompts her to continue. “I often wondered what had become of you. Sometimes I liked to imagine you had gone well away from Kings Landing, to Dorne or Essos or someplace where you could have good sour wine every day.”

He barks out a laugh, hating that she remembered him as a drunk and hating himself more for giving her cause. “Any wine would have been better than some of the piss I’ve had north of the Neck.”

“If you wanted the best we have you should have taken your meals in the Great Hall.” Sansa censures. “Why did you come north then, if not for our terrible wine?”

Sandor snorts and takes a long pause before shaking his head. “Bugger me if I know. I can’t say I’ve made much decision about any of it; seems the road I was on turned north so here I am.”

“I have trouble believing that.” She says tartly, smirking at the disparaging look he gives her. “The Sandor Clegane I knew was quiet decisive when it suited him.”

This time he openly scoffs at her. “Lady of Winterfell now yet you still have your memories all mixed up with the songs you believed were real. I was a whipped dog doing as I was told, I didn’t think for myself.”

“You thought to stop me from pushing Joffrey off of the bridge, and quick too. I had scarcely known my own intention before you were there. You came for me during the riots when surely you were expected to still be at the king’s side. You spoke for me, covered me, spent every fleeting moment we shared trying to open my eyes to the world so that I might survive it. It seems you were very decisive when it came to protecting me.”

“Protecting you.” Sandor rasps. “When I let that bastard boy hold you in the cross hairs of his bow, was that protecting you? When I left you at the Imp’s mercy, at fucking Littlefinger’s, all the monsters standing between you and your home, was that?”

“If you had stood between me and Joffrey’s anger he’d have taken your head, and I would have been left to Ser Meryn’s mercy.” Her voice remains level yet there is a flicker of something, warmer than the fractured moonlight of the Godswood, somewhere in the depths of her unnervingly blue eyes. How that can be as they discuss the horrors of her past Sandor doesn’t understand, but he cannot resist searching her eyes to be sure that warmth is there and lingering when he finds it, wishing to hold it in his hands or his heart for just a moment. 

At last standing before the red weeping eyes of the heart tree, Sandor contemplates Sansa while she considers the sacred space they’ve found. She is harder than the girl he remembers, stronger as he had insisted she become, and Sandor tamps down a pang of remorse for the hopeful little bird who has been lost along the way. But a cold wind dancing through bare branches reminds him of the brutal realities they face and he remembers why he feared for her. 

With a small sigh Sansa turns, allowing the Old Gods to watch her back as she speaks. “You’ve not answered my question, though.”

“I told you I didn’t set out to come here.” 

“No. You arrived with a dragon queen.”

“Wasn’t going to fight against the bloody things.”

A flicker of a smile crosses Sansa’s face, making Sandor wonder what she truly thinks of the Targaryen girl. Idly his fingers brush his belt, in search of what may well be the last shit wineskin he’ll ever call his own, but find nothing secured beside the dragon glass dagger he pilfered from the forge. It seems a strangely fitting northern weapon, no matter where the obsidian came from. 

“When last we met,” he states measuredly, “it was you who was to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sansa’s breath hitches momentarily. “That was a long time ago.” She turns her gaze away, testing her composure against the chill brought on by her memories. “When I still believed I could make life into a song.”

Her lament leaves Sandor feeling gratified and immediately guilty. Would that she could have had her song, that he could have given her such a life. It was too late for Sandor to wish better things for himself, his bitterness too deeply rooted, but for his little bird...fleetingly he wonders if her Old Gods contrived for him to stand before them and face the cost of his own hopes and efforts, laughing at his foolish refusal to value her dreams and her prayers. 

“You would have been a good and kind queen. And those vipers they call a court would have eaten you alive. Now, though,” the suggestion of his old patronizing tone slips away, a curious steadiness taking its place, “here. Here are people that would love you for being good. Just, like your father. They already look to you to see them through the long night.”

“You shouldn’t say such things; they could be misunderstood.”

Sandor fixes her with stare not unlike the one he could rely on to intimidate lesser men, challenging her to deny the praise laid at her feet. “Dogs don’t lie, girl. You remember everything else; I’d have thought you’d remember that too.”

“I remember.” She says quickly. “I remember you told me I’d be glad of the hateful things you did once I became queen. But I’m not a queen, and I don’t want to see you so hateful still.”

“I’ll like as not be dead tomorrow and you won’t have to see me at all.”

“Don’t say such things.”

“I speak the truth.” Sandor goads her, defensive. Without his realizing a small bud of hope had grown in his chest and been stamped down just as quickly as it had formed by the impossibility that they might, for once, on his last night, find a sort of peace together. “I’ve lived longer than I’ve had any right to and now the dead are marching for us. Does that frighten you, girl?”

A flurry of emotions passes over her face as she takes a long moment to study him, composing her thoughts. “I’ll be in the crypts come morning. If the dead find me there, I’ll know all is lost. That everyone who fought has fallen, everything we’ve fought for gone forever. That there will be no more hope. I am frightened of that.”

A breath he didn’t know he was holding releases and Sandor’s shoulders slump. Hope. Something he’s always tried to snatch away from her. And a legacy, a concept he never entertained. Two things sweeter than killing he’ll never be able to offer. With a small sigh he speaks, thinking perhaps the sounds of her chirping will fill his dying thoughts in a few hours’ time. “You still have hope, then.”

“I have one of the most renowned soldiers of the Seven Kingdoms before me, ready to fight for my home. That gives me hope.”

“Last time you saw me off to battle I turned craven.” Sandor scoffs bitterly. “And now I’m fighting beside fire-breathing dragons. We are well and truly fucked.”

“No.” The denial rushes from her lips. Shaking her head, Sansa draws a long breath and continues firmly. “No, we are not. I will not accept that. The battle will be terrible and many will fall, but the North will hold and you will come back to me.”

There is immense sadness in his eyes as he listens to her, and Sansa is struck by how vulnerable he appears. For a moment his scars vanish, lost in the dappled moonlight playing across his face and a shadow of someone younger and more innocent peers out from behind abject wretchedness. 

“I’ll fight for you, aye, and I may as well die doing it. Maybe one of your northmen will live to take my place. It’s as best a way as I can serve you anymore.”

A faint sound of crunching snow heralds someone’s approach, but Sansa’s eyes remain fixed on Sandor. “Come back to me.” She repeats, low and earnest. “Find me, when it is done. I will sing when you do.”

She never knelt before the heart tree as she had intended yet her prayer is made before her gods all the same. Sansa’s eyes never leave his as she steps up, impulsively grasping his arm as if to impress upon him the sincerity of her words before pulling away and retreating towards the keep. 

Left rooted in place by her words, Sandor watches the graceful swing of her hair disappearing from view as he thinks that no knight in any song was ever given a greater favor, and however undeserving he believes himself to be he desires it all the same.


End file.
